So there I was yesterday afternoon, still recovering from my reading (and the massive Random House party on Sunday night, which left dock at Jamie Kennedy's at the Gardiner Museum, tore through Avenue at the Four Seasons and eventually smashed up onto the rocks of the Hospitality Suite), when I suddenly realized there was another festival party about to start at Harbourfront.
"Ugh," I thought, as I crawled from my bed to the couch. "How can there be another party? It can't possibly be as big as last night. I'll just show up a bit late."
Turns out I missed the biggest party of this year's IFOA.
The IFOA/Hello! Magazine Opening Party went down in the Enwave Theatre last night, and it was a veritable who's who of who matters in publishing. I am a bad, bad blogger for missing it. When I showed up at about 7pm (yes, 7pm, people... this blowout started at 530 in the afternoon), the room was packed and wildly overheated. Speeches were over (I heard from a number of people that Geoffrey Taylor gave a great one), 150 people had already left and Hello! had already taken down their photo booth (get this: you could have your photo taken, and then through some whiz-bang printing they'd give you a personalized Hello! cover. I rue the moment on Sunday night when I switched from wine to scotch. Rue it, I tell you.)
Anyway, because the inimitable Becky Toyne decided not to rip my head off for being late (though it was well within her right to do so) and instead recently handed me a CD filled with photos from the party, forthwith, I will pretend I was there.
Actually, better to start with Hello! Magazine's party diary.
Team IFOA. Finally, their turn in the limelight. Well deserved!
Guest curator, feted novelist and all-round lovely bloke, Colm Toibin (right) with artist Micah Lexier.
Globe Book Review editor Martin Levin stumping Booker-winner Anne Enright with some arcane piece of trivia.
Two members of the IFOA Royal Family: Ben McNally and his son Rupert (pretending not to be admiring Kim McArthur's passing ponytail).
Bad blogger, arriving late. That is a look of contrition on my face (accompanied by a frisson of indigestion and a soupcon of a migraine).